


take me higher

by WanderingCreep



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, Make-up, phone calls at night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingCreep/pseuds/WanderingCreep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>roman really should delete this number.<br/>set after Raw 12/14/15</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tear in my heart

**Author's Note:**

> if you have any experience with my 'loves robots' ficlets, then you should know how this may or may not work. this is planned to be a standalone, but it may just end up as a place to find dopey little one shots.  
> and congrats to Roman; its about damn time.

take me higher (tear in my heart)

 

It’s a mystery to Roman himself why he still has this contact in his phone. He could’ve sworn that he’d deleted the thing months ago; almost a year prior. But as the noise from his congratulatory night on the town leaves nothing but a dull buzzing settling in his bones, he realizes that he feels numb.

He’s been riding an adrenaline high since Raw. With his job on the line, he’s had to fight Sheamus for the third fucking time and prove to everyone that he was most definitely deserving of the Heavyweight title. He’d thought he’d already made that clear when he’d won the damn thing the first time, but one Brogue Kick and an incredibly gaudy golden suitcase later, all of that clear understanding that he’d managed to drill into his naysayer’s heads had been lost, mucked up by a pasty Irishman with stupid _beard danglies._

Fucker even had his cronies come in and swoop down on Roman like the beady-eyed hawks they were in an attempt to cost him his match. And McMahon must’ve known they would too; he had to!

He was the one who’d stalled the referee long enough for the others to come to Sheamus’ aid. There was no way it was just a coincidence.

After defeating all the odds set up against him, Roman had punched the old man out and gone on with the rest of his night, feeling so much lighter than he had days ago. He’d showered, dressed at warp-speed and gone with the twins and Dean to a bar downtown. Amidst the constant chatter from Dean and the ceaseless upbeat aura that rolled off of both Jimmy and Jey in borderline obnoxious waves, Roman still somehow found time to feel like something was…weird.

Like the balance of the ground was off, tilted slightly at an angle. Like the feeling of being watched, but less ominous. He wasn’t worried about Sheamus coming for him; that wasn’t it. Come Smackdown, he knew he’d have hell waiting for him on the other side of the curtain, probably in the form of Stephanie or Vince McMahon.

Maybe both.

But it wasn’t a paranoid sensation. He was ready for them, come when they may. This just felt like something was out of place.

Now, when Roman looks down at the screen in the pitch black darkness of his room, he knows what it is. It’s maybe three or four in the morning and, god, is he exhausted. Not just from the match he’d had earlier; the twins, god love them, have enough energy to power a small city during an electricity outage. They’re constantly talking, always on the move; tonight is no different. They’d managed to bar-hop at least three bars tonight and had been mentioning a fourth when Roman had had to call it quits. Dean went with them instead, which Roman kinda finds sort of odd: he didn’t know they were, y’know, close enough to be doing that sort of thing.

Maybe they’re only sticking together like this tonight of all nights because they’re all on a happy buzz from the alcohol. Heaven knows Dean can keep up with the two inebriated twins; he’s probably entertaining them right now singing pretty badly on top of a bar table.

That was the only way to describe the amount of stamina all three of them had when they had a few shots in their system. Roman had always been more of the mellow drunk; no one ever knew he’d had too much to drink unless he told them. He was usually the one who was watching everyone else make a total fool of themselves, a silent sentinel by their side and making sure they didn’t get themselves _too_ thoroughly fucked.

He used to have company.

Roman actually isn’t sure why he got up from his halfway slumber and began seeking out this specific contact on his phone; this supposed-to-be-nonexistent contact that had hypothetically been deleted long ago. He just reaches over, nabs the phone from his bedside table and begins searching. Now that he’s found it, he isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with it.

Common sense says he should probably delete it and go back to bed. His thumb hovers over the contact, preparing to select it for termination, but then that feeling comes back, full force. That feeling that something is weird, something is off. The contact might as well have been renamed ‘DANGER’, because, wow, does this feel illegal. It makes Roman cringe to even entertain the thought deleting the contact, like he’s about to get rid of something important. Like he’s sentencing a man to death.

Remorse, perhaps?

 _You can always back out, y’know_ , a little voice says in his head then, and it’s _his_ voice. It’s enough for Roman to make up his mind and delete the number.

The moment his thumb makes contact with the touchscreen, the screen changes and suddenly, someone is calling him.

Too slow.

Roman stares at the caller I.D., the weird feeling suddenly gone and replaced with a new, yet equally disgusting one: disbelief, confusion, with a dash of unadulterated ‘what the fuck’ added in for good measure. Maybe he’s a little angry too, but at what, Roman’s not too sure. Maybe for calling this late? He thought he’d gotten over his anger with Seth Rollins, so it wasn’t that, surely?

Roman watches the phone with deep curiousity, the unbridled interest of a small child with a lighter. It feels as such, like Roman has a lighter or some other dangerous thing in his hands: taking the call could have pretty much the same effect as lighter anyway. Burning, sparking, painful. The start of something Roman doesn’t really want. Or does he?

(it can go either way)

Roman slides the screen, accepting the call just before the voicemail activates. Even with the line open, Roman just kind of…stares at the phone, like it might start doing flips and tricks in his hands if he watches it long enough. He can’t hear anything on the other end; maybe they’re doing the same thing wherever they are.

Getting involved was going to dreg up all kinds of feelings that weren’t exactly welcomed, but given the history they had together, was that really such a bad thing? Roman remembers good times. He remembers _really_ _good_ times. But he also remembers bad ones. Does he really want a live-action remake of all of that? For fuck’s sake, it had been hard enough the first go-round.

Well, Seth had called him. If there were going to be any sparks- of any kind, orientation or alignment- they were going to be ignited because of his own hand, not Roman’s.

That being said, Roman brings the phone closer and utters, “hello?” into the receiver. He runs right over the identical greeting that Seth gives him on the other end, said at the exact same moment that Roman gave his, and wow, it’s only been two seconds and they’ve already managed to fuck up everything.

Roman sighs, barely hears the sharp intake of air on Seth’s end.

“Sorry,” comes after. It’s from Seth this time, and Roman knows he’s talking about the massive screw-up that came about a few moments ago, but he likes to let his alcohol hazed mind imagine that it’s for….well, everything else.

(please)

They settle into silence then, which is weird, because Seth was the one who had initiated the conversation in the first place. Instead of talking, Roman can just hear him breathing, soft and strained. He knows Seth better than the guy himself likes to think: he’s nervous.

“It’ four in the morning,” Roman says in an attempt to get some kind of speech out of Seth. what the hell was he even doing calling Roman’s number if he was just going to chicken out in the end? Roman almost demands that be answered, but Seth beats him to the punch.

“I know,” he says quickly, like he could sense what was about to come his way, “I know. Sorry about that. I would’ve called earlier, but I figured you’d be out celebrating with Dean and I didn’t really want to spoil that; although, I guess I could’ve called tomorrow –or I guess later today now, but I wanted to say this before the shock wore off-“

Roman’s brows knit together. Seth Rollins is rambling.

“Um,” Roman cuts in, and altogether, Seth is quiet again. “What are you really trying to say? Come on, spit it out: deep breaths, slow down. I don’t think your brain can keep up with your mouth, big as it is.”

There’s a quiet woosh of air, and that’s Seth laughing and sighing in relief (?)

“Yeah, sorry. I guess…what I’m saying,” Seth trails off slowly. “I mean, what I called to say is, uh.”

Then he sighs again.

“Congratulations,” says Seth finally.

Roman is honestly shocked to hear it. He’s sitting there in silence, staring into the darkness with wide grey eyes, because wow. Wow.

He clears his throat, part in order to cover his blatant shock, and says, “Wow. Was it really that hard for you to say that?”

He means it jokingly, but also he doesn’t. He can clearly see Seth in his head, scratching the back of his head when he says, “Well, no. But given the current ground we’re on…”

“Oh.” That’s really all the reason Roman needs. Later, he’ll have time to ponder why that fact makes him wince. There’s more silence.

“That’s all,” says Seth after a while. “I just wanted to say congratulations. I know it wasn’t easy; but then, you’ve always been a fighter, huh?”

And wow, Seth needs to be stopped.

Roman quickly considers hanging up, but so many thoughts are running around in his brain at the moment; he can’t even think straight.

Seth must take his silence for dismissal, so he sighs, and Roman hears him say, “well, anyway. Have a good night.”

“Why didn’t you just text me?” Roman rushes to say. For a moment, the line is quiet, and he worries that Seth has already gone. But then he hears, “What?”

Roman releases a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding onto. “You could’ve just sent me a text message.” He swallows and adds, “Y’know?” because he doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know how else to make it more clear that he wants. _He wants_ -

“Well yeah,” Seth says, slowly. Carefully. “But, maybe I wanted to tell you that face-to-face. Or I guess, with my own voice, given the circumstances. I can’t really tell you how proud I am on a screen, can I?”

And he says it so easily that Roman believes him. Seth was watching his match from home. He was actually watching it and pulling for Roman to win, and he called him at four in the morning to tell him that he was proud of him.

And for some reason, he still has Roman’s number.

He’s quiet for so long that Seth eventually laughs quietly, and murmurs, “have a good rest of the night, champ.”

 

Roman sits in the darkness, staring at his phone until the screen finally goes dim from inactivity. He can't help but feel like that's a metaphor for something.

 

 

 


	2. tear in my armor

tear in my armor

 

 

It was inevitable, Roman supposed.

 

Eventually, he would have to get in the ring with his slimy boss to fight for something that was rightfully his. He didn’t expect it to be so soon, but Triple H was not a very patient man, and if he could sniff out an opportunity to show everyone he was still the alpha dog of the company, then he would. He would let Roman challenge him for the belt since he was so sure that he could still beat the younger man at a game he’d been playing for decades.

It was all for show, and that’s where Roman had him beat.

He was sure; just because this wasn’t a game to him, Roman knew for certain that he could fight harder and fight better than Triple H could, because he had everything to lose and even more to gain. Triple H was a man with nothing to gain and nothing to lose; he was already counting himself as the winner, and the match hadn’t even been announced. He was too confident.

Just like someone else Roman knew.

“I’ve taken away everything you have left, Roman,” says Triple H, his voice echoing over the audience filling the arena. “Your title, your dignity,” he pauses and looks thoughtful, before he adds, “your best friend.”

And for a moment, Dean pops into Roman’s head and he worries that somethings happened to him. Then he remembers.

And he’s angry.

“Seth made that decision on his own,” Roman interrupts rudely. Triple H never took Seth from him. He didn’t even take him from the Shield. Seth chose to remove himself from the equation. It was no one’s fault but his. “I want what’s mine, though. I want my title. Tell Stephanie to make the match. Anytime, anywhere, old man.”

 

 

Later that night, he gets word from Stephanie herself that he’ll get what’s coming to him. She’ll make his life a living hell.

 

 

 

For a while, it was fine. It wasn’t like Roman really believed that Stephanie would make good on her word about making his life a living hell. He’d gone through hell and back already, since that night in June that no one liked to talk about; here he was on top, though, scratched up and battered, but a king of the metaphorical mountain nonetheless. And there was nothing she could do about it.

Not even when she’d sentenced Jimmy and Jey to the three-on-two steel cage match against the New Day. Over as the trio were as heels, they weren’t a real threat.

Not even when she’d threatened to feed Dean to her lapdog Sheamus. It wasn’t like the Irishman could beat Dean down for long; if anything, the psychotic Intercontinental champ would be the only one in that ring giving Sheamus hell to pay.

That was the thing about Stephanie. She underestimated everyone, especially Roman and his friends. That was her flaw; she was a cunning, calculated woman, but lately, she was slipping. Her grip on the company was losing its vice, and that was partly Roman’s fault. Which was fine by him. It was always fun to get under her skin, and she’d long since had it coming anyway.

So, no. Roman isn’t worried.

He’s so unbothered about tonight, at Elimination Chamber of all places, that he decides to plant himself backstage and watch the show at his leisure, phone in hand, a plate of potato chips on the table next to him. He’s fine.

So far, Adrian’s had his match and come around, receiving congratulations from everyone backstage, Roman included. The kid’s good, no doubt about that. Roman had been rooting for him above the others, actually: of course, anyone was better than Tyler fucking Breeze.

The team of extreme old guys came out fists swinging to lukewarm applause and the aid of Kane, who Roman guesses is supposed to be a good guy now?

Okay then.

He won’t complain; better to have the giant appeased than have him prowling around on his bad side. Not much has happened yet, which means Twitter is providing probably the most entertaining chatter for the next half hour of the pay-per-view.

There’s a rumor floating around on the ears of social media that there will be a surprise guest at Triple H and Roman’s match later on during the pay-per-view. It’s almost like everyone’s forgotten about the actual Elimination Chamber match itself in lieu of the mystery guest.

_‘I heard Seth Rollins is returning!!!!!! OMG PLS’_

 

_‘I CANNOT WAIT FOR EC TONIGHT #selloutbuyin’_

 

_‘if Seth Rollins doesn't show up for #tripsvs.reigns I will flip a table. #hopesanddreams_ _#dotherightthing’_

 

Hm.

It wasn’t like Roman wasn’t expecting that to come up. It does make him curious though. What would be a better way of entertaining the fans than the master’s protégé and Reigns’ old friend calling the match between the two of them?

Roman frowns. Was he actually hoping that weasel was here tonight? What the actual fuck?

Seth could easily call the match in Triple H’s favor if he were to be the referee, and Stephanie knew it. Was this what she meant by making his life a living hell? Maybe.

But Roman could work around it. After all, there were no tears in his armor.

He was ready and willing for a fight, and, Seth Rollins be damned, he was going to win.

 


End file.
